


Goodbye, Old Friend (And Hello Again)

by emsloe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dreams, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mind Palace, POV Third Person, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Relationship, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emsloe/pseuds/emsloe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock dreams of scenarios in which John leaves him.</p><p>Prompt: Write a fic based off whatever song you last listened to.<br/>Early Rise - Old Friend</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Might Settle Down

**Author's Note:**

> Has not been beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Characters aren't mine, all that lovely stuff.
> 
> And I'm well aware that I used a combination of British and American English. Is there a word for that? Briterican? Ameritish? Aaaanyway. It just is.

Sherlock glanced around the café nervously, hands shifting around his cup of coffee. There were two women and four men in the room. Of the four men, one of them was too tall ( _red head, dancer, recent breakup with his boyfriend, recent as in yesterday, he’s killing time and doesn’t want to retrieve his things from the flat_ ) and one of them was too young ( _punk, has two cats and a goldfish but the goldfish is dying, he’s trying to catch up on homework_ ). One of the remaining two was dangerously skinny ( _computer nerd; forgets to eat sometimes, pines after an attractive but overweight brunette woman at work, rarely leaves the house and is nervous to be out_ ) and the last was almost the right height, the right stature ( _works in a grocery store, cheating on his wife—why do so many of these people have relationship problems?—plays guitar often but not well_ ) but was still not a familiar ex-army doctor with greying hair and laugh lines.

Had John forgotten? No, of course he hadn’t; he wouldn’t. Purposefully ignoring him, then? But John wouldn’t do that. Not John. Would he?

The bell on the door jangled weakly. Sherlock looked up, and then exhaled slowly. Middle aged woman ( _stay-at-home mother of three, bit of a green thumb, rich but chooses to live more frugally, is visiting a friend_ ), also not John.

Sherlock sipped the drink in his hands. He didn’t want it, not really, just wanted an excuse to stay. Perhaps, though, there was no point. It seemed that John wasn’t coming.

 _Why? John always used to come when I needed him, and sometimes just when I wanted him there, but he was by my side, always, what happened?_ They’d left things off well enough, or well enough as could be expected under the circumstances, and John had no reason to be angry with him.

Another sounding of that pitiful bell, and another man stepped into the room. _Gray hair, lined face, slightly short, a little soft in the belly, JohnJohnJohnJohn!_

John looked around for a moment, and then his gaze fell on Sherlock. He came over to Sherlock’s table.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Spot of trouble at home. Sherri’s ill. But it’s good to see you, Sherlock. I can’t believe it’s been five years. How are you?” Sherri was John’s only daughter. She was three years old and doubtless not very clever, but John had assured him over email that three year-olds weren’t yet expected to be very clever and that was fine.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said. He didn’t come here to talk about how he was, he came to see John again. “How is…” He flicked his fingers.

“The domesticity?” John chuckled. “It’s good. Gets a bit boring sometimes, but boring is fine. It’s a bit tiring, sometimes. Sherri keeps me up as much as you used to, although not with cases, obviously.”

“And how is, ah…” Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to say her name, but John knew.

“Mary? Good. We’re all good. Not much new there. What about you? Did you meet anyone since…” _Since we broke up? Since you moved out?_

“No,” Sherlock said. “I haven’t been looking to settle down.” _Not since you, John. You ruined me for anyone else._

“Oh, well. That’s, you know, fine. Any interesting cases lately?”

Their awkward small talk soon gave way to honest conversation. Sherlock told tales of old cases he’d taken on, twisting the details just a little for maximum dramatic effect (just for John; he’d only commit such a heinous crime to impress John). John told stories about his new horribly ordinary life sans Sherlock.

Two hours passed, and then John was checking his phone, and Sherlock knew his allotted time with John was up.

“I have to go,” John said apologetically. “Mary needs my help. You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, nodding. They’d email and text sometimes and occasionally call, like they’d been doing, but it wouldn’t ever be the same. John had a family, and Sherlock was still alone.

Sherlock watched as John smiled fondly and raised a hand in farewell. Then he was gone.

 

Sherlock woke with a start. There was a weight in his chest and he found it rather hard to breathe. Ridiculous. It was just a dream, after all. He was in a hotel in America, he had only recently faked his suicide, and John was not settling down and having children with a woman named Mary.

Sherlock slumped back down on the pillows and closed his eyes, for once unwilling to rush out of bed.


	2. John Might Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes an unforgivable mistake.

Sherlock couldn’t allow John to leave him. He wouldn’t. He jumped out of bed to retrieve his phone and texted John.

 

_Faked suicide. I need you. Wait for me. SH_

 

Sent. There. Now John would know not to go gallivanting with any women in an attempt to get between their legs. There was no time for romantic relationships when Sherlock and John had crimes to solve. And they would, when Sherlock returned.

With that taken care of, Sherlock took his laptop (which, fortunately, had already been close to the bed for his convenience) and logged on.

Sherlock’s phone _dinged_ an hour later.

 

_Sherlock. I knew you couldn’t be dead, you tit. Of course I’ll wait._

 

Satisfied, Sherlock returned to his work.

 

At noon, Sherlock visited a café. His was an outdoor table, and he found himself in a suitable position to curse the perfect weather as he picked at his tuna sandwich. Was this what he was reduced to without John to entertain him? He was bored, and there was nothing to do, and he couldn’t even amuse himself by deducing the people around him because it was all so _easy_ and there was no one to share his brilliance with.

The chair across from Sherlock scraped as it was pulled out, and Sherlock looked up. Mycroft. Sherlock was surprised he hadn’t noticed his brother sooner. Stupid and entirely unacceptable. It was imperative that he pay attention.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped. Mycroft had absolutely no reason to be here, in _America_ of all places.

“Sherlock.”

“If there’s something you wished to tell me, you needn’t have bothered coming all the way here. I do not require your presence. Now, go away.”

“Sherlock.”

_Why is Mycroft here? He should be busy. Why isn’t he busy? What’s so important that he had to leave London? Surely there’s nothing more important than his work there. Unless something’s happened. Slow, I’m slow today, yes, what’s wrong with me?—something’s happened. But what? What is it?_

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said again. “I told you not to contact him.”

 _Something’s happened and it involves John, oh God how could I not have seen this sooner unacceptable unacceptable unacceptable_ —

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“What happened to him?”

“You knew the risks,” Mycroft said, “And yet you foolishly texted him. Why, Sherlock? It wasn’t safe.”

Mycroft’s voice was tight, pained. _Wasn’t safe. Past tense. OhGodohGodohGod_.

“What happened to him?” Sherlock said again. He felt cold. He didn’t know why Mycroft was doing this to him. All he needed was assurance that John was alive, safe. He didn’t realize he’d been rising up out of his cheap plastic chair, not until he saw the look on Mycroft’s face and fell back with a thump.

“No,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock, he’s dead.”

_Oh, God._

Sherlock couldn’t breathe for a moment; his lungs refused to work. Then, after a moment, he regained control of his body and inhaled slowly, steadily. He felt calm.

“No.”

“It was one of Moriarty’s lackeys. Sebastian Moran.”

“No.”

“I’m taking care of it. You can’t get involved, not yet. Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade still aren’t safe. But when we’ve found him, I can promise to… turn a blind eye, for a short while. Whatever might happen to him in that time…”

Sherlock stood.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Sherlock…”

“No,” Sherlock said. “I can’t. Not right now.”

“I am sorry, Sherlock. Truly, I am.” Mycroft’s hands tightened around the handle of his umbrella. “If you should… need anything from me, do not hesitate to ask.”

Then Sherlock turned and began walking away. He wasn’t sure where he was going. His mind, for once, was blissfully empty. His conductor of light was gone, and now there was no more light.

He made it to a park, somewhere, and sat down on a bench by the dismally small duck pond. The nothingness inside his head wasn’t good, he knew, and he should have been more worried.

He visited his mind palace, walking up the steps and nudging open the door. He looked around and blinked. There was nothing. The walls were bare. The furniture was gone. The cupboards were empty. His footsteps echoed softly as he checked room after room of pure nothingness. Here, the chemistry room, devoid of even a stain on the bare wood floor. Here, the room where he kept his unsolved cases (1999—2007), and even the gouges he’d left on the windowsill had vanished. Here, the room where he kept everything John-related, and sunlight gleamed on four untarnished white walls. He stood in the middle of the floor, blinking in the light, feeling oddly lost. When he breathed in, it smelled like window cleaner.

Where was the shelf dedicated to John’s military career? Where was the bed where he kept details about John’s family? Where was the nightstand where he lined up all the things that John deemed Not Good, so that he could remember to avoid them? Where were John’s likes and dislikes? Where were the sounds of his different laughs? Where was the smell of him in the morning, afternoon, night, after Surgery, after a night out at the pub, after racing through London’s streets in pursuit of a criminal? Where was _John_?

Sherlock retreated from the mind palace quickly.

 _John, John, John_.

Sherlock didn’t cry. He didn’t scream or rip out his hair or hold himself down while he choked on air. Experiencing emotion, after all, was not Sherlock’s forte, and he couldn’t grieve for a man he could no longer remember particularly well. He almost wished he _would_ cry, though. Surely John, his friend, deserved his tears?

Or perhaps not. John might not have had his tears, but he’d taken everything else. The mind palace was still empty.

 

When Sherlock woke from his dream, he was gasping for air. He tried to scramble out of bed, tangling himself in the sheets in the process and falling awkwardly on his arse. He could hardly breathe. Slowly, slowly, he counted to ten and went back to his mind palace.

It wasn’t empty anymore. He could tell that much before he even stepped inside. He glanced over each room to confirm that nothing was missing before finally, finally entering John’s room.

Ah. There it was. Everything. Information about John in Afghanistan on the shelves, John’s issues with Harry’s alcoholism on the bed, Sherlock’s emotional detachment and body parts from the morgue and black moods on the nightstand. In the left corner of the room—John liked butter biscuits and jazz music and Monty Python, disliked rhubarb pie and country music and _Downton Abbey_. On the desk, there! John’s amused chuckle, his strained snort, his hysterical giggle. A cabinet held his morning musk, his sweat, his scent mixed with antiseptic, his scent mixed with beer. John was still there.

The last thing Sherlock did, just to be sure, was check all the recent texts in his outbox. They were mostly to Mycroft, and none of them to John.

Good. Good. Just a dream.

Finally, Sherlock allowed himself to relax.


	3. John Might Love Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has his most unrealistic dream yet.  
> He can tell it's unrealistic because in it, John kisses him.

When Sherlock fell asleep again, it was only because sleep was required to keep his brain functioning optimally. He didn’t particularly wish to witness John leaving him _again_.

But this dream was different. This time, Sherlock could tell that none of it was real. It was just as vivid as the other dreams, at least when he focused, but everything blurred at the edges.

 

This dream took place at 221B Baker Street. He was stretched out on the sofa, hands resting laxly on his chest, eyes studying the flaws in the ceiling above.

He heard shuffling footsteps on the stairs, and then the door clicked open and shut. Sherlock leapt to his feet.

“John. John!” he cried.

“Sherlock, what—”

Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulders and shook him, _hard_. John’s eyes narrowed in irritation and he opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him.

“I know what’s going to happen,” Sherlock said, and the words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush. “You will inform me that you’ve had enough and are moving out, or that that your mother fell ill and you have to take care of her, or perhaps your latest girlfriend is pregnant and you’re going to marry her? No, not the girlfriend; I can tell by your jacket that you’re single, for now. Your leg suggests that your mother’s not ill and your hair tells me you’re not yet moving out. So what, then, what? Perhaps I will anger you and you’ll leave, only to be hit by a car. But you can’t leave me, John, not again. I need you alive and by my side for as long as it is physically possible. I _need_ you, do you understand? I apologize for not informing you earlier that my death was faked but I couldn’t. You would have died, and that would have been intolerable. I need you, John! I doubt I say it enough and I doubt I ever will, but let me say it now. Forget whatever plans you had to leave again. Stay.”

John blinked.

“Sherlock…”

“Please,” Sherlock said, very quietly. He didn’t let go of John’s shoulders.

“Wanker,” John said, but his voice was fond. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist in a quick hug. “I’m staying, Sherlock. For as long as you want me.”

“Good, good. That’s good.”

And then suddenly, they were kissing. Sherlock’s hands came up to hold John’s face, and John’s arms tightened around Sherlock’s waist. To Sherlock, it felt like the world exploded with sensation. John’s lips were like cold, biting wind and sea foam and the warm grit of sand. John’s skin tasted like vanilla ice cream beneath Sherlock’s fingers, and his breath had the texture of orange peels, and his hair was blue and purple when Sherlock’s eyes closed.

Sherlock felt like he was freefalling, except that John was holding him up. Now they weren’t in 221B because the flat couldn’t have held the full expanse of sky that they were standing upon.

They broke apart, and Sherlock’s fingers chased the scent of violet from John’s cheek.

“I love you,” John said. His voice was sunlight and birds’ wings.

“Good,” Sherlock said, again, and John took his hands and tugged him toward the sofa. They lay down, tangling themselves in one another. John’s hands skipped across Sherlock’s violin string heartbeats and Sherlock reciprocated, burying himself in the warmth somewhere next to John’s heart.

It didn’t go wrong until the sky began to darken and rain slid down inside Sherlock’s head. The air began to smell sour.

“Sherlock,” John gasped out.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to focus. The cross-wiring of his senses was beginning to right itself. The feel of the ocean began to fade from John’s lips, the ice cream from his skin, the fruit from his breath.

“Sherlock,” John said again, “You’re hurting me.”

Sherlock pulled his hands back and jumped off the sofa. John was clutching at his head, grimacing.

“John?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that,” John said. His voice was low with pain.

“Do what?”

“You know what. Bloody hell, Sherlock, I can’t trust you with anything, can I?”

“Do what?” Sherlock repeated, bewildered.

“Sometimes I think you really are a sociopath,” John snapped. “Do people’s feelings mean _anything_ to you? Do _my_ feelings mean anything to you? I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.”

John looked older, suddenly. There were more lines in his face, and everything about him was grey.

“I’ve stayed by your side for so long,” he said. “Done so much for you. And you still can’t treat me like a human being. I love you, Sherlock, and I know you love me too, but you’ve made no room for me in your life and I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving.”

“No,” Sherlock gasped. “John, you said—”

“It doesn’t matter what I said. I have to take care of myself, Sherlock. You’re not normal; you’re hardly even human. I should have known when you faked your death and let me grieve for you, then appeared in my living room and expected me to just fall into step behind you again. I won’t let you stomp all over me like this.”

Then John got up from the couch and plodded out the door.

“John!” Sherlock called, bounding after him. But when he ran out the door, there was no sign of John anywhere.

He went back inside 221B and found Mycroft sitting on the sofa, umbrella clasped tightly in his hands.

“You’re so cruel to people, Sherlock,” he said sadly. “You took John for granted, you know. But perhaps you never really loved him, and if you did, it certainly wasn’t the same way he loved you.”

“What?” Sherlock snapped, furious. “Of course I love him. He’s John.” The idea of Sherlock _not_ loving John was ridiculous.

Then the dream began to shift again, spiraling into the realm of the ridiculous.

“You should get an umbrella,” Mycroft said. “I have an umbrella, see? And there is no purer love than that of me and my umbrella. Oh, no! True love.”

Mycroft’s voice was mocking. He lifted his hands, presenting the umbrella to Sherlock. It grew wings and flew away, screaming in a voice that sounded suspiciously like John’s.

“HOW DO I FIX THIS?” Sherlock bellowed at the sky. “How am I supposed to keep John if everything I do simply drives him away?!”

“Simple,” Mycroft said, waggling his eyebrows preposterously. “Just get an umbrella.”

“An umbrella!” came John’s voice.

“An umbrella!” the sun shouted.

“An umbrella!” the sofa cried.

 

In the morning, Sherlock got out of bed and went straight to the bathroom. He was soaked in sweat, and pain pulsed at the front of his head. His thoughts were sluggish. He held a hand to his forehead, and it felt too hot, but he couldn’t be sure if that was truly an indicator of illness. He took a shower in the hopes that it would help.

When he returned to his bed, there was a file on the nightstand that hadn’t been there before.

An update from Mycroft on his progress—Moriarty’s network was coming down piece by piece. Excellent.

But Sherlock’s head still hurt, and his stomach was beginning to clench painfully. Definitely ill, then.

Sherlock returned to his bed, but he remained awake. He would stay so for as long as his body allowed. He didn’t want to dream again.

The dream of the night before had hurt in a way that the others hadn’t. Sherlock realized that he wanted John to love him, even if John’s kisses didn’t inspire synaesthetic bursts of sensation across his skin. But John was only romantically interested in women. Even if he wasn’t, it was likely that Sherlock would unwittingly hurt him. At least some aspects of the dream had been realistic; Sherlock wouldn’t be careful enough with John’s feelings.

No, a romantic relationship with John Watson was an impossibility, and it was better that Sherlock knew as much. 


	4. John Might Never Have Existed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next time he sleeps, Sherlock is prepared to do whatever necessary to prevent John from leaving him again.
> 
> Unfortunately, John isn't real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not bother doing research before writing this. I have no idea what being in a coma is like and I don't know what procedures are followed when people wake up. I think that's alright, though, considering.

Sherlock hadn’t meant to fall asleep again, but he knew he had when he woke to the smell of antiseptic and roses.

He was on a hospital bed, and machines were steadily beeping somewhere close by.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock turned his head, wincing at the stiffness in his neck, and saw Mycroft sitting in the chair by his bed. His brother’s white-knuckled hands were clenched around his umbrella. There were purple bags under his eyes and deep, permanent-looking creases in his forehead.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock sniffed. “Why the hell am I here?”

“You were comatose,” Mycroft said. “You were in a car accident. Do you remember?”

“A car accident?” Sherlock repeated. The very idea offended him. How could something as simple and common as a car accident reduce him to this? “How long?”

“A year.”

“What?!” Sherlock demanded. And then something occurred to him. “John? Where’s John?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.

“Who is John?”

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed. He tried to sit up, but he found that his body was too weak, so he contented himself with simply glaring at Mycroft. “Doctor John Hamish Watson. Ex-soldier, blogger, bachelor John Watson! On the day he took the flat with me, you offered him money to spy on me! Surely something so important could not slip even your aging mind, brother! Where is he? He must be there somewhere. How will he leave me again if he’s not here somewhere?”

“Sherlock…”

“This is a dream,” Sherlock said. “It’s a dream, and John must abandon me yet again in accordance with the other dreams I’ve had since my untimely death. So where is he, Mycroft? I need him. I won’t kiss him or text him or let him marry some woman; I shall not be making the same mistakes again, seeing as I cannot allow him to leave me. So where is he?”

“Calm down,” Mycroft snapped. He glared at Sherlock for a moment, then leant his umbrella down against the arm of the chair and rubbed at his eyes. “You speak of dreams, but this ‘John Watson’ you ask of is the dream. No such man has made your acquaintance, and nor has he made mine. And surely this is a good thing. I have never seen you so… attached.”

“I need him,” Sherlock said.

“I don’t believe it.”

“I do. I need him. He’s my… friend. My best friend.”

“I thought Victor was your best friend,” Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow. “And you don’t work yourself up like this over _him_. As I told you, your John does not exist.”

“No,” Sherlock insisted. “He does. This is a dream. I have to wake up.”

“You _are_ awake,” Mycroft said. Sherlock watched as he visibly reined in his anger. “This is the first time you’ve been awake in a year. I’ll not have you prattle on about some figment of your imagination when I need you here, in the real world.”

“John is… truly not here?”

“No.”

“You mean to tell me that this dream does not contain a John?”

“This isn’t a dream,” Mycroft sighed.

“John is not dead or married or upset with me for hurting him?”

“No. As I keep telling you…”

“This breaks the pattern, then. That’s good, I suppose, though I’d much rather if John stayed with me than if he didn’t exist at all. The world is quite lacking without him.”

Mycroft sighed again. He stood and collected his umbrella, and Sherlock noticed that _this_ Mycroft had lost quite a bit of weight. How strange. His clothes were large and poorly-fitting on his thin frame.

“Rest, brother, and I’ll let the others know you’re awake. I’ll find Victor for you, if you’d like, and send him in.”

“Oh, no, that’s quite alright,” Sherlock said.

Then Mycroft shuffled out the door.

 

The day dragged on. Nurses came and checked on Sherlock, saying things about physical therapy and concerned relatives and such. Interesting; Sherlock was certain that, in reality, they should be doing more than this. Or perhaps dream-Mycroft had been involved somehow.

When Mycroft returned, Sherlock gave him the brightest false smile he could muster.

“Do you know?” he asked. “This is the most vivid dream I’ve had yet. It truly feels real. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d think it _was_ real. It’s rather strange, because all my dreams about John leaving have been awfully realistic, except for the one where he loved me. Why is that, do you think? Is it because my subconscious thinks the idea of John having feelings for me is so preposterous that it would not be feasible in a realistic dream? I can’t wait for this nasty business to be over and done with. Once you’ve destroyed Moriarty’s network, I can go home to London and see John. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly, of course. You really should let me help more with the Moriarty thing. It would hurry things along considerably.”

Mycroft’s eyes were tired and sad.

“Oh, Sherlock. You love him, don’t you?”

“I believe I do. I thought about it yesterday, and it seems to be the only logical explanation for what I’ve been feeling, so I’ll accept it as the truth. However, I’m well aware that I can’t have him, so I shan’t be bothering him with it. Don’t you dare be smug about this, brother. I’m only telling you because I’m ill and you’re nothing more than a dream.”

“Why would I be smug about my baby brother falling in love with a figment of his imagination?” Mycroft said, but his voice was so quiet that Sherlock barely heard him.

“I don’t think I’ll be telling John about these dreams when I return home,” Sherlock said. “He’d just delete them after. I’ll probably delete them, too. I could put them in his room in my mind palace, though I don’t see why I would, as I have no use for them.”

Mycroft hesitated, then said,

“Tell me about your John.”

“He’s quite extraordinary,” Sherlock said. “He was an army doctor in Afghanistan, and he’s quite attracted to danger. It’s why he and I get along so well, you see. He comes with me to crime scenes and helps, either with the bodies or with chasing down criminals. He’s brave and loyal, and he killed a man for me once. He’s quite tolerant of me as well; I know I’m not an easy man to live with, but still he stays. And he thinks I’m brilliant. It’s strangely convenient that he appeared that day, because I doubt any other man could be such a perfect partner for me…” Sherlock knew he sounded like an idiot, rambling on about how wonderful John was. He shut up.

“Strangely convenient,” Mycroft said bitterly. “Of course he’s perfect for you. I’ll do my best to try to find someone similar to be your companion.”

“No need,” Sherlock said. “I have John, after all.”

Mycroft just shook his head.

 

The next morning, Sherlock was still in the hospital. He was moved into a wheelchair and taken around the hospital briefly before being returned to his room. Mycroft visited again at noon.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Sherlock said. “Why am I still here?”

“You’ll get used to it eventually,” Mycroft said.

“No,” Sherlock said petulantly. “I hope this is my last vivid dream. I hope I wake soon.”

But another day passed, and another. Sherlock was made to do exercises so he could soon be strong enough to walk again. Mycroft checked on him frequently, and their mother visited, and even Victor showed up once.

And Sherlock was lonely. He missed John. He could almost—almost!—believe that everything Mycroft said had been true, and that he really had been in a coma. 

He didn’t accept it entirely until one day, when he visited their flat and found that it didn’t even look like the 221B Baker St. that he knew.

Shortly after his brief breakdown—(what would he do without John? Nothing would be quite the same) he woke up in the hotel room in America with the sheets bunched around his feet.

He would not allow himself to sleep again.


	5. John Might Not Leave At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is awake, and John's not leaving.

The text came early in the morning, only a short while after the sun broke the horizon.

 

_It is safe to return. We will be retrieving you shortly. MH_

 

Sherlock almost texted back to ask Mycroft if he was dreaming again, but the man would deny it even if he was.

At nine in the morning, there was a knock at the room door, and Sherlock went to answer it. It was a well-dressed man with chocolate-colored skin and a shaved head.

“Mr. Holmes, I’ve been sent to collect you. Are you ready?” His accent was American; apparently Mycroft’s influence extended even to here.

He was asking if Sherlock had packed up his things. Unnecessary. What few belongings Sherlock had with him had been kept in his bag, and when he’d gotten the text from Mycroft, he’d done a last check of the room to make sure he had everything. He’d known he had, but he went through the motions anyway. With how he’d been in the past few days, it couldn’t hurt to double-check lest he leave behind something important and confidential.

Sherlock just nodded and grabbed his bag.

En route to the hospital, the bald man was entirely silent. He didn’t speak except to offer Sherlock food and drink. Finally, before dropping Sherlock off at the airport, he’d spoken again: “Here’s your plane ticket. I’ve also been told to inform you that, when you return to London, Dr. Watson can be found at this address.”

He handed Sherlock a ticket and a slip of paper. Sherlock glanced at the paper, memorizing it, and then slipped it and the ticket into his pocket. He would repeat the address over and over in his head, painting the words across the walls of his mind palace until there was no doubt that he could ever forget them.

The bald man left without another word.

 

Sherlock’s flight was long and tedious. Sitting there in first class, all he could think was _JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_ , a steady mental mantra, a litany of John-ness. Finally, he’d be able to see John again. _Finally_.

Perhaps he should have been worried, because this many circuitous John thoughts consuming his mind couldn’t have been healthy. But he didn’t particularly care. When he had mended all the leaking holes in his and John’s friendship, when everything returned to normal, then of course he would think of other things. But for now, he couldn’t seem to manage it.

When his plane landed, another one of Mycroft’s people came to pick him up and drive him back. The car ride, though comparatively short, seemed to last for ages.

He insisted on seeing John before returning to 221B, because jetlagged as he was, he was exhausted, and he didn’t want to risk another vivid dream before seeing John and making sure he said all the things that needed to be said.

So the car pulled up outside of the house where John was staying, and Sherlock got out. He stared at the door for a moment. Would it be better to pick the lock and barge in, as he so wanted to do (despite the risk of angering John), or would it be better to knock?

The decision became unnecessary when the door opened and John stepped out.

He hadn’t seen Sherlock yet; he was looking at the ground. He appeared fatigued and… depressed. That was a good word to describe him. There was exhaustion etched into his very bones.

Then he glanced up, and his eyes locked onto Sherlock.

“Oh,” he said.

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from bounding forward and enclosing John in a hug.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, breathing in the scent of him.

“I knew it,” John said, leaning his head against Sherlock’s chest. “I knew you couldn’t be dead. You’re Sherlock Holmes; you always think of something.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said. “I’d be happy to explain it to you, though I’m afraid I’ll have to do it like this. I shan’t be letting go of you, because I shan’t be letting you leave me. If you find this disagreeable, I’ll gladly think of something to make it worth your while to stay, though I hope that won’t be necessary.”

“This works fine,” John said. “God, I missed you, you great berk.”

“And I you, John, as you have no doubt deduced by now.”

They stood in silence for a long time, Sherlock with his arms around John and John with his face buried against Sherlock’s chest. John appeared to be having some mild difficulties breathing. Sherlock would have more concerned if he couldn’t tell that physically, John was fine, and _Oh, my leaving must have had something of an impact on him emotionally, and—oh, oh, is he crying?_

“Sorry,” John muttered after a time, and tried to pull back, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him.

“Don’t apologize,” Sherlock said. “Were you on your way to anything important, or can we go inside?”

“It can wait,” John said, and tugged Sherlock toward the door.

John clearly shared the place with a friend, a woman. But it wasn’t a girlfriend; John, Sherlock had noticed, had grown a bit of a mustache. The woman who lived here wouldn’t tolerate the facial hair and would make him shave it. Conclusion, John was single. Sherlock was glad for that.

They stood in the middle of the main room. Sherlock chuckled nervously.

“This isn’t a dream, is it?” he wondered. The thought had occurred to him only then.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?”

“Mm.”

“Um, Sherlock, are you going to—”

“Let go of you? No. I dreamt that you left me, first for a woman, then in death, then because I hurt you, and then…”

“Calm down, I’m not leaving. And anyway, that’s not what I was going to ask. Are you going to want to go back to Baker Street, or…”

“Yes. If you’re amenable.”

“Most of my things are still there. I got the feeling that you’d be back. Started to doubt it, after a little while, but… you know. Probably for the best that I didn’t pack up more of my stuff.”

“Quite.”

“Just to be clear, Sherlock, you are _not_ doing that to me again. Do you understand? Next time, let me in on the plan.”

“I needed you to believe me dead,” Sherlock said. “Elsewise the enemy wouldn’t believe it. And then they would have killed you, John.”

“Well, figure out something else next time. You’re clever.”

“Alright.”

“Don’t leave me again, Sherlock, okay? Promise me. And this includes when you’re housebreaking—don’t leave me behind. Promise.”

Sherlock was sure he’d regret making such a promise later on, but at that moment, all Sherlock could think was that this would give him a good excuse to follow if John ever tried to abandon him, and so he promised.

“Thank you,” John sighed. There was a moment of silence, and then, “I know you don’t care, but I love you.”

Sherlock started pulling back to get a better look at John, and John grabbed Sherlock’s forearms in panic.

“What kind of love?” Sherlock asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. His own ears heard failure.

John frowned.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters. It matters very much.”

“Well, it’s, uh, the romantic sort. But don’t worry. I don’t expect you to—”

Sherlock wanted John to shut up. He’d heard all he needed to hear and was entirely uninterested in John’s reassurances. So he took what he thought was the most appropriate course of action and kissed John midsentence.

There was no synaesthesia, no vibrant bursts of color or oceanic smells. There was no falling. What Sherlock _did_ feel was far from dreamlike. John’s lips were chapped, and his mustache tickled Sherlock’s skin. When Sherlock inhaled, John smelled primarily of himself, and as far as Sherlock was concerned, that was infinitely better than any of his subconscious’s conjurings.

John made a strangled noise and Sherlock pulled back.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “I’ve made a mistake, haven’t I?”

“No,” John said, pulling Sherlock closer. “Do that again.”

 

Later, a jetlagged Sherlock fell asleep in John’s arms against his better judgment. His sleep was dreamless, and when he woke, John was still there.

And John was there every day following.


End file.
